


What Maria Wants

by queercapwriting (queergirlwriting)



Series: Where's Your Head At? [33]
Category: Captain Marvel (2019)
Genre: F/F, Maria's POV, Needs, because like, carol x maria first kiss, carolmaria, my soft danbeau bbies, so smol and nervous about their feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 18:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19138549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queergirlwriting/pseuds/queercapwriting
Summary: Maria wants to kiss Carol.





	What Maria Wants

Carol knew every song, and she wasn’t afraid to belt them. Her voice was decent - pretty, even - but it was her facial expressions, the way she put her entire body into the music, that made Maria’s knees weak.

Carol would jump up and down like a school kid with no worries or traumas whatsoever whenever that karaoke machine at Pancho’s had the song she was in the mood to sing, and it made Maria’s heart leap.

Carol knew exactly what Maria needed when she’d have a rough day, and she wasn’t afraid to use a uniquely Danvers-style combination of puppy eyes and a subtly threatening tightening of her fists to get what she wanted: which was to “borrow” Captain Hartley’s pickup truck, load it with snacks and blankets and astronomical binoculars, and drive Maria out into the mountains so they could lay down together and eat PB Crisps and star gaze, and it comforted Maria more than anything ever had.

Carol would set her jaw when they would go for their morning runs, mile after mile. Her eyes would never leave the horizon, and her feet would never break perfect form, and her stride would never waver, and it made Maria more winded than running ever could.

And all Maria wanted to do - when Carol sang absentmindedly to herself, or belted Lita Ford for everyone in Pancho’s to hear, or put her confident hands on the wheel of a pickup just to make Maria feel better, or went on her morning run, or… anything, really, truth be told - all Maria wanted to do was kiss her.

Kiss her best friend and make her feel wanted. The way Carol made Maria feel wanted.

It was written all over the ways that Carol doted on her: making her bed for her when Maria was having a groggy morning, swiping extra biscuits from the mess for her just to see her smile, picking completely irresponsible fights for her just because someone looked at Maria sideways.

Carol made Maria feel wanted, and worshiped, and adored.

And all Maria wanted to do was make Carol feel the same way.

And, she thought, she did a decent job of it.

Making sure Carol always came home with her when her parents were hosting a big southern Sunday dinner (so, every Sunday they could afford to swing away from base and down to Louisiana). 

Making sure that whenever Carol had those nightmares she’d get, or those panicked moments when she couldn’t tell which way was up, that her arms were strong enough, her voice soft enough, to hold her and help her breathe and help her know that she would be alright.

Making sure Carol always had the parts she needed to maintain her ratty old Mustang, because it was the first car she could afford to buy with her own money and she’d be damned if she traded it in for something newer.

Carol was loyal like that. 

And it made Maria giddy like nothing ever had.

So she brought her home and watched the realization cross over the faces of knowing aunts and uncles and cousins. It didn’t need saying.

It never needed saying.

They were in love.

But Carol hadn’t said it, because maybe she didn’t know, or maybe she thought it was so obvious no one needed to say it, or maybe Maria was wrong, or maybe she wasn’t wrong but Carol had decided their lives were hard enough.

Whatever Carol’s reasons, Maria respected them.

Because she respected her.

But that respect didn’t stop her from wanting.

And lord, did she want.

So when Carol suggested they get extra dressed up and hit up a bar that wasn’t quite the dive that Pancho’s was - “somewhere we won’t know anyone and no one will know us,” she’d said - Maria dared to hope.

She wore that low cut red shirt that always made Carol gulp and blush and splutter around until she remembered what words were and how to make them with her tongue.

And she wore those hoop earrings that always made Carol smile and softly, so damn softly, and tell her she looked beautiful.

Because she knew Carol was taking her somewhere special. But she didn’t know how special.

So when they walked into this bar, three hours away from base - they’d made a road trip of it and Carol had driven with her arm on the back of the passenger seat and it had made Maria melt - and she saw women playing pool with women, women flirting with women, women dancing with women, and, in one corner off to the side, two women kissing each other…

She knew.

She knew, and almost before Carol could clear her throat, set her shoulders, and offer to grab them both a beer, almost before they’d gotten completely through the door, she took Carol by the lapel of that damned and beautiful brown jacket and pulled her entire body close.

“You want to?” she asked, her lips a breath away from her best friend’s, Carol’s eyes suddenly somehow both hazier and sharper than Maria had ever seen them, her final layer of making sure, her final layer of point of no return, because she knew if they did this, they’d never, ever stop.

“Maria,” was all Carol murmured in response, and it was all she needed.

Carol’s lips were soft and somewhat chapped, which was so damned Carol that it was perfect; she was perfect. The way Carol moaned so, so softly, almost like a sigh, like a prayer, the moment their lips met, the way one hand went to Maria’s face and the other, to her hips, her fingers finding the skin between her shirt and her jeans.

The way she swooned when Maria’s tongue brushed her lips.

She had made Carol Danvers swoon.

And she never, ever planned on stopping.


End file.
